


But Honey, Most of Them are True

by reserve, seducerhymeswithdeduce



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Breaking the Fourth Wall, Humor, Kent Parson Cameo, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Patrick Sharp Is a Troll, Story within a Story, The Chicago Tribune must have an ao3 Account
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 02:57:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4288143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reserve/pseuds/reserve, https://archiveofourown.org/users/seducerhymeswithdeduce/pseuds/seducerhymeswithdeduce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Love, passion, intrigue, cute Canadian accents. Blackhawks fan fiction (yes, fan fiction) has it all"<br/>- <i>The Chicago Tribune</i>, May 1st, 2015.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Honey, Most of Them are True

**Author's Note:**

> Kent Parson from the wonderful hockey webcomic _[Check, Please](http://omgcheckplease.tumblr.com/)_ makes a cameo is this story. You do not need to know anything about _Check, Please_ to enjoy this.
> 
> This could be way more cringeworthy than it is. But isn't every fic like this kind of cringeworthy?

 “ _The Blackhawks are aware of Blackhawks fan fiction, but a spokesman politely declined, twice, to discuss it.”_

> [The Chicago Tribune](http://www.chicagotribune.com/entertainment/movies/ct-ae-borrelli-fan-fiction-blackhawks-20150501-column.html#page=1), May 1st, 2015.

There's a sudden thumping sound from Jonny's general direction, like he's just slammed his fist down on the table, and Patrick looks up. They've both been pretty engrossed in their cell phones since they met up for lunch, but there's a lot going on. Trade rumors galore, so who can blame them for both being glued to Barstool Sports. 

Jonny, though, is staring at his cell phone like it tried to fuck his mother; his mouth tightly pinched and his overall facial expression pretty constipated. Hilariously _,_ his fist is in fact white-knuckle clenched and resting on the table. 

"Did you just punch the table, dude?" Patrick's upper lip lifts into a sneer. "Like, seriously?"  

Jonny thrusts his cell phone at Patrick and gestures at it with disgust. "Here."

It's a text from Sharpy, that much Patrick can tell straight away, and the block of text Sharpy has sent is really, really long. Which is stupid. Couldn't he just call?

"What?" Patrick says flatly. "Can't you give me a TL;DR?" He learned that one from his sisters. They're Internet savvy. 

"Just read it," Jonny grumbles. "You _can_ read."

Patrick sighs long-sufferingly. "If I must."

"Ok, don't read it." Jonny jerks his phone away. 

"Hey! Fuck you. C'mon," Patrick protests, making grabby hands until Jonny gives the phone back to him with one eyebrow cocked, and a knowing smirk. 

At first Patrick has no idea what he's looking at and it's actually pretty hard to concentrate with Jonny staring at him like a dismayed grandmother. Patrick feels like _he_ did something wrong, and he knows (usually) when he did something to piss Jonny off. He starts at the top of Sharpy's obscenely long text for a third time and tries to get his head in the game. 

 _Ask Peeks if he's really this dumb_ , it starts off, which is just rude. Then it gets worse. 

> "So wait, Canadians aren't born differently than Americans?"
> 
> Everyone turns to look at Patrick with equally horrified expressions, but it's Burish who must draw the mental short straw because he takes a deep breath and says, "how the hell do you _think_ Canadians are born?"
> 
> Jonny is probably going to get a world of good material out of the shit show answer that's about to ensue, so he perks up a little. 
> 
> "Well, you know," Patrick says, blushing that hot red Jonny absolutely does not find the slightest bit cute. "They're maple babies."  
> 
> "Maple babies?" repeats at least three of the guys at once and Jonny slugs back the rest of his beer. 
> 
> "You know." Patrick's shoulders scrunch up, making him even smaller. "You get the maple babies from the bottoms of the trees. They're like, watered and stuff. And they're covered in syrup until you wash them off. It's a thing." 
> 
> "Syrup making is a process. The trees don't make syrup," Jonny says derisively before he can even grasp how stupid the rest of it is. "Wait, what?"
> 
> "Maple babies?" tries Patrick, hopeless, his eyes bright and jumping from face to face. 
> 
> _I can't believe I'm having sex with this asshole_ , Jonny thinks. 

"Oh my god," says Patrick out loud. "I know where fucking babies come from."

" _That's_ what you took away from that?" is Jonny's incredulous reply, his eyebrows trying their best to hide somewhere in his hairline.

Patrick shrugs. "Well it's pretty obnoxious. I'm not an idiot. Why would Sharpy even write—"

"Sharpy didn't write that," Jonny interrupts. "It's. You remember that article? At the start of May? In the Trib?"

" _No_ I don't remember an article from a very robust newspaper that was written over a month ago and came out while we were trying to win the Stanley Cup, which, oh by the way we won, so what were you saying?" 

Jonny's nostrils flare, and it fills Patrick with a childish satisfaction he's not even going to attempt to parse. Jonny snatches his phone back.

“Hey wait, there’s more!” Patrick says, reaching for it. 

“No there isn’t.” Jonny glowers at him and slips his phone into his pocket. “Eat your salad,” he says. 

* * *

The next time, they're biding time in one of the Hilton dining rooms, waiting to leave and come back together on the red carpet for the Convention opener. Jonny doesn’t slam anything, but he does burst out laughing while staring down at his cell phone which is more than enough to peak both Patrick's and Crow’s interest. 

“What?” Patrick wants to know. “Was it something on @TheFatJewish?” He loves that Instagram. 

“No,” Jonny says, giving him a hard look. 

“C’mon, what’s so funny?” 

Crow raises an eyebrow at them both and ambles over to the breakfast buffet like he’s got better things to do. _Yeah right_. 

“It’s nothing,” Jonny snaps. 

Patrick tries to get in his space and get a look at his phone but Jonny holds it over his head. No problemo, because Patrick’s not above jumping for it. When he manages to get good enough air and wrap his fist around Jonny’s they both kind of topple backwards into a table. Jonny yelps, high pitched and annoyed, but his phone goes flying across the table toward some half-eaten danishes. Patrick will clearly take the penalty for this but he could care less. 

“What’s your password?” 

“Give me back my phone, Kaner. This is stupid.” 

“I bet I can guess,” Patrick frowns down at Jonny’s phone and types in 1988. Jonny’s phone unlocks and Patrick literally has to stop himself from a) whooping with joy and b) chirping the hell out of Jonny. That's also the passcode on his phone, so. 

Another text from Sharpy is up on the screen and Patrick rolls his eyes before reading.  

> "Patrick... you're like a drug to me," Jonny says, eyes dazzling. "I'm dangerous, don't you get that?!?!"
> 
> "I don't care, Jonny!" Patrick yells, trying to hold back tears. He loves Jonny too much. He's not going to let him go now.
> 
> "You know what I am..." Jonny steps closer to the spot of sunlight drifting down through the trees. "Say it. Out loud."
> 
> "Hockey vampire," Patrick chokes out, running forward into Jonny's arms. When he slams into Jonny's rock hard, sculpted cold abs, they stumble finally into the beam of light. 
> 
> Jonny sparkles like a fresh outdoor rink catching sunlight in the morning. He is beautiful. And Patrick is totally, unconditionally, and irrevocably in love with him.

Patrick is also laughing uncontrollably by the time Jonny wrestles his phone back and sullenly jams it into his suit pocket with a huff. 

“Holy shit, man,” Patrick says between giggles, “that is some stupid shit right there. Obviously if I ran into you and you were a vampire and as strong as Edward Cullen, you wouldn’t stumble backwards.” He shrugs. "I’d probably just run into you and bruise myself.”

“ _That’s_ what you got from that?” Jonny says in the most strangled voice Patrick has ever heard. 

“Well duh, fiction writing is all about believability, right?” 

 “Oh my god,” Jonny says, before stomping off for more coffee. 

Hockey Vampire Jonny would totally agree with him, Patrick thinks soothingly. 

* * *

After the first night of the Convention they all head to Rockit because habit, and also Chicago, and also really hot shot girls. Patrick’s only human. They’re basically still celebrating their Cup win, so the drinks are flowing from every direction and Patrick’s main goal is to not end up slow-dancing to EDM with a magnum of champagne at any point in the night. 

Then he catches sight of Jonny bearing down on Shawzy and Sharpy who are hanging all over each other and shaking with silent laughter, and Patrick's main goal shifts to keeping Jonny from knocking their heads together. 

“What are you knuckleheads laughing about?” Patrick overhears. How Jonny's voice is still a raspy mess one month later is pretty boggling. 

“Bro,” says Shawzy, with a thrilled shit-eating grin, “have you seen this stuff?” 

“Seen what?” Patrick is there in a heartbeat. If it’s more of those internet stories then he doesn’t exactly want the _whole world_ knowing about them. And yes, he looked up the article, but he couldn’t bring himself to actually _read anything_. Honestly he’d thought ao3 was like, a very complicated stats site. 

“They're just _stories_ ,” Jonny says, dismissive. 

"Written by strangers. About you. Ain't that true Peekaboo?” Sharpy turns his handsome shark grin on Patrick. “Did you like my selections?” 

“Selections?” Patrick gives Jonny a look. Like, like Jonny’s been holding out on him, which is ridiculous because this is all ridiculous. “How many have you sent Tazer?” 

“Five or six,” Jonny mumbles, very interested in his fancy organic beer. 

Sharpy raises an expectant eyebrow. 

“Or ten,” Jonny amends. 

“Oh my god, you’ve been holding out on me, what the fuck. That is not bros.” Patrick goes straight for Jonny's suit pockets while Jonny attempts to sidestep him.

"I found one where you whine a lot." Sharpy smiles meanly at Patrick over his phone. 

"I don't whine. Tell him I don't whine," Patrick whines. 

"You whine," Jonny says. 

"You guys," says Patrick, whining very purposely. 

* * *

The major downside of the conference is that now that they're all together for several days, the taunting can occur in person. Patrick can barely go near Sharpy without hearing about stories he's found. Clearly Sharpy's weeks after the Final were very busy. _Not_. 

Patrick is minding his own business, playing a little bit of Candy Crush before they sit down for a panel when Sharpy shouts at him from across the fucking room. 

"Yo, Peekaboo, in this one you have a vagina!"

Seabrook makes a gagging sound. 

"Hey!" Patrick says, just a little bit offended, "I'd make a fucking hot chick, you assholes." He would, he knows; he's got sisters and he's obviously been on the wrong side of a make-up brush at one point or another. And like, an eyelash curler and some really cheap mascara, too.  

Next to him, Jonny face-palms like he means it. 

“Wow, you guys are into some kinky shit," Sharpy says, his voice lilting up in amazement. 

"We are not into it. _Other_ people are into it. What the fuck," says Jonny.

Sharpy clears his throat. “Okay but listen to this, alright? It literally sounds exactly like you two. Like I’m pretty sure this happened.” 

Jonny crosses his arms over his chest and glares. It's an impressive glare. 

"Holy shit, you are literally doing exactly that in this fic right now," Sharpy says gleefully. 

"Just read it already," Patrick gripes. 

Sharpy clears his throat again, and takes on an affected Shakespearean tone. _Well, this was a horrible idea_ , thinks Patrick. 

> Jonny crosses his arms over his chest and turns his impressive glare on Patrick. _Fine_ , Patrick thinks, _two can play at this game_ , so he blows a raspberry at Jonny and continues flipping through the channels on their hotel television. 
> 
> "Just pick something already. You're killing me, Peeks."
> 
> "Let's get Pay-Per-View."
> 
> "No," Jonny says immediately. "Find something like a normal person."
> 
> "Tazer, we're rich. Pay-Per-View is totally within our means." Patrick clicks the on-demand button and pulls up the extensive menu. He scrolls to movies first and hesitates on _Clueless,_ because duh. 
> 
> "Nope," says Jonny. 
> 
> " _Con Air_?"
> 
> "Nope."
> 
> " _Shakespeare in Love_?" Patrick kind of loves that movie. 
> 
> "Extra nope."
> 
> “ _Saving Private Ryan_?"
> 
> Jonny tilts his head consideringly. 
> 
>  "Nope," says Patrick, clicking the down button too many times too quickly and making the menu scroll uncontrollably on its own. Which is how it ends up on the porno titles when it comes to a halt. 
> 
> " _The Mighty Fucks_?" Jonny reads. "I don't even—"
> 
> Patrick hits buy like his life depends on it, and then he side-eyes Jonny through the charging process. And that's how they end up jerking off together to pretty ridiculous hockey porn. 
> 
> "I fucking hate you," Jonny gasps out, right on the brink of coming over his fist. 
> 
> "Samsies," Patrick groans. 

"Holy shit, are you telling me there's an actual porno called _The Mighty Fucks_?" Patrick is vibrating, he's so thrilled. "That's amazing. That's freaking awesome."

Jonny's mouth is hanging open and his eyes are all funny, and he kind of looks like he used to after having one of those long showers he took all the time when they were road roommates. " _That's_ what you took away from that?" he grinds out, and somehow his voice is even raspier. 

"Bro, you should have your vocal chords looked at," Patrick says. He's a good friend. 

* * *

"You guys have sex with Saader in this one," Sharpy says. 

"Too soon, asshole!" Patrick yells. 

" _That's_ what you—"

Patrick throws a dinner roll at Jonny's head. 

* * *

After the Conference, Jonny calls Patrick up from Winnipeg, and doesn't even bother to say hello.

"What is this shit? Do you have a journal?" he demands.  

_What the fuck._

"I DO NOT HAVE A JOURNAL," Patrick shouts back. "BECAUSE I'M NOT A TEENAGE GIRL." 

"I mean.” 

He can practically hear Jonny roll his eyes. 

"If the shoe fits," Jonny says. 

Patrick hangs up on him.

A few hours later, he gets an email with the subject line "sorry." The content is only Jonny's stupid "Be Better" email signature, and a pasted link. Patrick is a modern day Pandora, so of course he clicks it. 

>  Jonathan Toews skated low to the ice and smart. He had brown hair and browner eyes and he always looked a little bit confused, or maybe perturbed, but in a good way. 
> 
> Patrick like-loathes him the second he sees him. He's _thrilled_ to be playing with Toews. Being on the ice with Jonny feels like the start of something big, like the true meaning of hockey falling into place around him; and keeping up with Jonny is what keeps him from being bowled over by that massive, overwhelming truth. 
> 
> They're thirteen; and Patrick wants to skate somewhere to Jonny's right for the rest of his career, for the rest of his life.
> 
> He can't help but think that Jonny feels the same way. 

"Shit," Patrick says to his empty backyard. The pool water ripples gently in the breeze, and out on the lake he can see a group of kids getting wasted on a catamaran. 

 _Comes pretty close_ , Patrick writes back. Then he hits send and vows not to check his email for a while. 

* * *

Jonny doesn't mention Patrick's email admission which is both a disappointment and a relief. They've never talked about their time on the Junior Flyers in any real depth beyond casual reminiscence, but Patrick remembers Jonny. He could step into that locker room and out onto that ice tomorrow and it wouldn't feel like time had passed at all. 

 _It's not just about us_ , Jonny texts him a few days later. And he follows that up with the blocks of text Patrick is getting used to. Where do people find the time to write this stuff? 

> Kent Parson isn't the sort of person to sit around moping, but he'd Tivo'd the Frozen Four and has some time to kill between home games, so mope is what he winds up doing. Albeit in his gorgeous Trump Vegas apartment with his adorable cat on his lap, so it could be worse. 
> 
> Watching Eric Bittle send Zimms that perfect, game winning assist makes his heart hurt, though. He didn't want to know that Bittle was doing just fine as his replacement on Jack's right, even if he does look like he's on the verge of shaking out of his skin at any given moment on the ice. 
> 
> The cellys are what really kills Kent. Zimms hugging someone who is decidedly not him in a moment of complete and utter abandon, drunk on a good win and nothing else, is hard to choke down. It's actually fucking horrible. 

_wait is this parson on the aces?_ Patrick types out. 

 _Yeah_. 

 _with the Zimmerman kid?_ And good for him, signing as a free agent with the Falconers, Patrick thinks fondly. He's always looked up to Bad Bob. Bro had the dirtiest dangles. 

 _Yup_. 

 _who the hell is eric bottle?_ Patrick sends, refusing to google it for himself. 

_Bittle. You know, small for a hockey player but great hands. He's blonde? Southern? Kind of a dark horse, but had the frozen four winning assist._

"I didn't know you followed NCAA hockey," Patrick says archly when Jonny picks up his call. Making phone calls isn’t his favorite, but it feels like there’s something important here. 

“I’m a fan of hockey,” Jonny says. "And you can't pretend Zimmermann's story isn't interesting."

"No, it totally is," Patrick allows. "Just, college hockey?" 

"All hockey," Jonny says with priestly gravitas. 

"You know." Patrick stops, and then he swallows down his doubts. "It's kind of cool. This stuff. I like thinking about Captain Perfect Parson moping around in his apartment."

"That's because you're an asshole."

Patrick shrugs even though Jonny can't see him. 

"It is kind of cool, though," Jonny says, like he's admitting something big. "It's just fantasy, right? That's ok."

"Yeah," Patrick says, putting on his most reassuring tone. "That's totally ok. That's very ok."  He honestly isn't sure if he's reassuring Jonny or himself, because while he hasn't read any stories on his own, he's been thinking about them. Kind of a lot. 

* * *

Patrick figures Jonny must have blocked Sharpy or something because _he_ starts getting the texts about midway through August. They'll all be heading back to Chicago soon for pre-season, but Patrick is enjoying his last weeks in Buffalo. He likes being home. 

He's lounging by the pool with his bucket hat pulled low over his eyes (Patrick's very fair, he needs the extra protection) when his phone buzzes. It's gotta be Sharpy. Jonny hasn't been very forthcoming lately. Jonny hasn't been talking to him much at all. 

Patrick deletes the text conversation without looking. He's going to miss those new pictures of Sadie. 

* * *

Jonny shows up at his place the day after Patrick gets back to Chicago. He hasn't even unpacked his things yet; choosing mostly to sit on his couch in his boxers and ponder the state of things. The state of things being not really talking to Tazer, which sucks. 

Except then Jonny is there, in his apartment, and looking mutinous. 

“Hello yourself, Tazer,” Patrick says, when Jonny pushes past him.  Patrick closes the door, and when he turns around Jonny is pacing in his living room, restlessly curling and uncurling his fingers by his sides. Patrick leans against his kitchen island, crosses his arms over his chest and waits. Jonny will get there, he usually does, and after several false starts, where it almost seemed like he’d decided what to say, Jonny reaches into the messenger bag slung over his shoulder, and pulls out a neatly folded stack of papers. Then he wordlessly hands them to Patrick. 

“Don’t read it now,” Jonny says, when Partick starts unfolding. 

Patrick immediately stills his hands. “Okay?” 

“And like, don't freak out when you do,” Jonny says all in one breath. 

Patrick narrows his eyes. “Wow, did Winnipeg break you this summer or something?” 

“Or something,” Jonny says darkly. 

“Are you staying?” Patrick asks, as he turns toward the fridge, and then wishes he had a shirt on when he opens it and his nipples peak embarrassingly. 

“Yeah, alright,” Jonny says, and dumps himself and his bag on the couch. “I haven’t turned my cable back on yet,” he adds, and Patrick can hear him start flipping through the channels. There goes his quiet afternoon of _M*A*S*H_ reruns. 

Patrick comes over with two Bud Lite Limes, and Jonny makes a face but takes one anyway. 

“Only you, Kaner,” he says, taking a swig. “This is swill.” 

They settle in for some mindless television despite Patrick’s apparent poor taste in beer, and it’s nice. It’s nice to just hang out with Jonny and have some last bits of summer with him. They don’t get a lot of lazy days together during the season, or during the summer, or anytime really. Despite the strangely idle life of constant travel, he and Jonny don’t really _chill_ all that much. 

Patrick decides to snag the papers Jonny brought for him when he’s on his way back with their third round. 

“I’m going to read this now,” he says. 

“Uh-huh,” says Jonny, totally engrossed in _Band of Brothers_ (which was a pretty good compromise). 

“Okaaaay,” Patrick sing-songs, unfolding Jonny’s tidy work. 

> "That wasn't English, Kaner."
> 
> "Thought you didn't want me to talk," Patrick quips. He flinches as Jonny's hand comes toward his face, expecting another slap for talking back, but instead Jonny just caresses his cheek.  
>    
>  "Good, you're learning."  
>    
>  And fuck Jonny, because he can be quiet if he wants to. He's not _learning_ anything. The words still send a shiver down his spine though, and it's obvious that Jonny knows exactly what effect he has on Patrick.  
>    
>  "Come on, open up, let's try this again. Deep breath before I go in, there you go." Jonny’s hand stays soft, gentle on Patrick’s cheek, the feeling at odds with the thrust of Jonny's dick into his mouth.  
>    
>  "Yeah baby, down, yeah." Jonny inches his dick further in, and then Patrick can feel it pushing at the back of his throat, meeting resistance.  
>    
>  He gags and tries to pull back, just a bit.  
>    
>  "You can do it, come on, Peeksy." Jonny's hands slide up from his cheeks to his hair, and grip hard, holding him there. Then he pulls Patrick even further down, until his nose is buried in Jonny's pubes. Fuck. His throat spasms, and Jonny's dick pushes past the last resistance, sliding down his throat.  
>    
>  "Don't fight it," Jonny murmurs from above. "Take it like a good boy."

“ _Oh_ ," says Patrick, eyes wide. He can feel himself flushing bright red all down his neck. He licks his lips; once, twice, three times, and when he glances at Jonny he ends up meeting Jonny’s stare full-on. Patrick's stomach swoops wildly. Jonny is looking between him and the papers and back again like maybe one or both of them will disappear. On the television, Captain Winters gives a rousing speech.  

“You, uh, printed this out for me?” Patrick says, going regretfully high-pitched at the end. 

"Yeah." Jonny's voice sounds awful. _Still_. Like the dude has literally been throat-fucked into oblivion which, well. Patrick shivers.

"Huh," he says. 

Jonny drops his eyes to somewhere around Patrick’s chest, and Patrick could swear his skin gets even hotter. 

“That one stood out,” Jonny says. His grips the back of his neck for a moment and Patrick can see the way his fingers leave white imprints behind. He looks up at Patrick from beneath his unfairly long eyelashes. “I thought it might stand out for you, too.” 

Patrick’s mind is reeling, half of him screaming that it’s a terrible prank, and the other half of him shockingly prepared to get down on his knees....but then, it is _Jonny_. And of course Tazer would go whole hog and call him out on his willful avoidance by way of kinky shit. _Unless…_.

“Bro, did Sharpy put you up to this? Because I stopped looking at his texts.” 

“What?” 

“Like, did he make you come here and give me this story and then suggest that I’d like it? Kind of like a weird friend-on-friend catfishing? Because that’s mean even for him.” 

“Wait, you don’t like it?” Jonny’s bambi eyes go all round and molten chocolate, and yes, Patrick likes it. He’s been playing it cool all summer about this shit, of course he fucking likes it. He _really_ likes it. “What’s catfishing?” Jonny asks.

Patrick groans and rubs his hands over his face. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry—” 

"Shut up," Patrick says, and bites his lip. He puts one hand on Jonny's closest knee. "I like it. I mean, you're fucking weird”—Jonny grunts, but Patrick ignores him—“for printing this out and bringing it to me when you could have just, like, asked me. But _yeah_ , I fucking like it, okay Tazer?" His face feels like it's on fire, but Jonny's cheeks look just about as red as Patrick’s feel, so he figures this whole seesawing horny-mortification thing they've got going on is working out.

“I had to find the right one,” Jonny says, squaring his jaw. “It had to be just right.” 

“Great job, good work. You got me.” 

“I didn’t want you to have the wrong take away. No _Mighty Fucks,_ or whatever.” Jonny waves his hand around. 

“Uh-huh, right, yeah,” Patrick says, scooting in closer, and then leaning in even closer. He squeezes Jonny’s knee. 

“There’s a lot of fic out there, you know? Like, a lot. And I read a lot of it. Trying to find the _right_ one.”  

“Yup,” says Patrick. “I’m going to kiss you now.” 

“I think I read this in a fic once,” Jonny says dreamily, and then he can’t say anything at all, because Patrick is pressing him back against the couch cushions and licking into his mouth, and just about devouring anything else Jonny might have to say on the topic of fan fiction. Eventually the rest of Jonny gets in on the action, and then Patrick is unbearably grateful to be flipped around and into Jonny’s lap, and for Jonny’s mouth beneath his ear, and his teeth scraping along the line of Patrick’s throat, and the way Jonny is gripping the curls at the base of his neck like he has to hold Patrick in place, keep him near. And he’s even a little bit grateful he doesn’t have a shirt on, since Jonny clearly has an affinity for nipple pinching. 

“Shit,” Patrick whines, three octaves higher than his normal range, and straight into Jonny’s mouth.

“Pace yourself, I’ve got a lot of stuff to try out,” Jonny mutters, stupidly intent and ridiculously hot, before tilting Patrick’s head back by the scruff of his neck and really going to town on the delicate skin below his ear. 

Patrick may have to leave some gracious comments later.  

**Author's Note:**

> Follow us on tumblr for more of the same: [reserve](http://reserve.tumblr.com) and [bittyparse](http://bittyparse.tumblr.com). Title from a Taylor Swift song, where else?


End file.
